The protein bar crumbles in my mouth, dry and tasteless. I chew mechanically, watching Kaelen cinch the satchel tight, watching Sera run her thumb along the edge of her new dagger, watching the bare bulb overhead cast long shadows across the oil-stained concrete. The garage smells of grease and old metal and something green—the mossy undertone that clings to Kaelen like a second skin.
My magic sits in my chest like a coiled spring. Quiet now. Waiting.
"You're sure about this route?" Sera's voice cuts through the hum of the bulb. She's looking at Kaelen, her silver-blue hair catching the light as she tilts her head. "The Whispering Wood has Guild patrols. They don't ask questions before they strike."
Kaelen grunts, adjusting the strap across his chest. "The Guild patrols the main paths. We stay to the deer trails, the old growth. They won't find us if we don't want to be found."
"And if they have trackers?" I ask. My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
Kaelen looks at me then, his hazel eyes catching the light in a way that makes them look like old amber. "Then we run faster."
I almost laugh. Almost. But the sound dies in my throat as a noise cuts through the garage—
Metal groaning. The roll-up door at the front, the one Kaelen locked behind us, lifting with a shudder that echoes off the walls.
Every muscle in my body locks.
Kaelen's hand moves to his belt. I see it happen in pieces—the shift of his weight, the slide of his fingers toward the iron-forged blade tucked there. Sera's feet reposition on the concrete, a dancer's adjustment, spreading her weight to the balls of her feet. The sea-glass around her neck catches the light as she angles herself toward the sound.
I don't move. I can't. My magic surges once, a quick startled pulse, and I feel it settle behind my ribs like an animal lifting its head.
The door stops at chest height. A pair of boots appear beneath it—dark leather, soft soles, the kind that don't make noise on pavement. Then the door lifts higher, and a man ducks underneath, straightening to his full height in the spill of the bare bulb.
Tall. Sharp-cheekboned. His hair is dark brown, tousled like he's been running his hands through it, and there's a silver ear cuff catching the light in his left ear. But it's his eyes I can't look away from—honey-amber, catching the bare bulb like lit embers, fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
Behind him, the garage door settles back into its tracks with a soft clank.
The silence that follows is the kind that has weight.
Kaelen's hand has stopped moving. It rests on the pommel of his blade, not quite drawing, but ready. Sera's weight is forward now, balanced, her fingers loose at her sides in a way that tells me she's done this before—faced down strangers in garages at night.
The stranger doesn't look at either of them.
He looks at me. Only me. Past Sera's silver-blue hair, past Kaelen's oak-curved horns, past the oil stains and the tool chests and the bare bulb humming overhead. Straight to the hollow where my magic just settled, like he can see it. Like he's been following it.
And then he smiles. Slow. Amused. Like he's found exactly what he came looking for.
"Well," he says, and his voice is a low, drawling thing that curls through the garage like smoke, "this is an interesting place to find you, little flame."
The words land in my chest and sit there.
I open my mouth. Close it. My pulse is hammering, but my voice comes out flat. "Do I know you?"
"No." He takes a step forward, and the bare bulb catches the thin silver scar bisecting his left eyebrow. "But I know you. Or rather—" He pauses, tilting his head, and I catch a scent on the air drifting from him. Bonfire smoke. Night-blooming jasmine. Something dark and warm and ancient. "I know what you did tonight."
My blood goes cold.
Sera moves. Fast. She's between us before I can blink, her hand up, palm flat, the universal signal for stop right there. "Who sent you?" Her voice is a blade. "Answer fast, or I'll assume the worst and act accordingly."
The stranger's smile doesn't waver. He looks at Sera for the first time, his amber eyes scanning her with a lazy curiosity that makes my skin crawl. "The half-siren speaks. Good. I was beginning to think she was decorative."
"Answer the question." Kaelen's voice rumbles from behind me, low and dangerous. I hear the scrape of his boot on the concrete as he shifts position, flanking the stranger's left side. "You have three seconds before I stop asking."
The stranger spreads his hands—an open, unhurried gesture. No weapon. No threat. Just the easy confidence of someone who knows he's in control of this room, locked door or not.
"I'm not here for a fight," he says. "I'm here for her."
He's looking at me again.
My stomach drops. My magic surges, a bright flare of heat behind my ribs, and I feel my fingertips tingle with that golden light I still don't know how to control. I clench my fists, shoving it down, but I know he saw it. The flicker in his eyes tells me he did.
"I felt it," he says, and there's something different in his voice now. Less drawl. More focus. "The pulse. The one that went out a few hours ago—like a bell ringing in the dark." He takes another step, and this time Sera doesn't stop him. She's watching him like she's waiting for a specific tell, the one that says he's about to strike. "I was across the city when it hit me. And I thought—" He smiles again, but it's softer now. Almost wondering. "That's not possible. That kind of power hasn't woken in three centuries."
Three centuries.
The words hit me like a fist to the chest.
Kaelen speaks before I can. "You're old enough to remember the Thornheart line." It's not a question.
The stranger's eyes cut to Kaelen, and something passes between them—a recognition, a weighing. "I'm old enough to remember when the Thornheart line was the only thing keeping the courts from tearing each other apart." He turns back to me, and his gaze is sharper now. More intent. "And I'm old enough to know that the heir was supposed to be dead."
The garage goes very, very quiet.
I can hear the bulb humming. The distant whine of a siren somewhere in the city. My own heartbeat, thudding against my ribs like it's trying to get out.
"I'm not dead," I say. My voice comes out steadier than I expect. "Obviously."
The stranger laughs—a low, genuine sound that catches me off guard. "Obviously." He takes another step, and now he's close enough that I can see the texture of his scar, the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his amber eyes seem to glow from within. "You have her eyes, you know. Aeliana's. The same storm-grey that shifted when she was angry."
My breath catches.
"You knew my mother."
"Knew her?" He tilts his head, and something flickers across his face—too fast to name. "I watched her burn a courtier alive for touching her without permission. She was magnificent."
Sera snorts. "Charming. Really."
The stranger ignores her. He's looking at me, and I feel pinned to the spot, caught in those amber eyes like a moth in honey.
"I've been waiting for this," he says, and his voice drops, intimate, like we're the only two people in the garage. "For a very long time. The Thornheart heir, waking in the dark, calling power that should have died with her mother." He steps closer, and I don't step back. I should. Every instinct tells me to. But my feet are rooted to the concrete. "I felt you tonight. A pulse of pure, unshaped magic, ringing through the city like a bell. And I knew—"
"You knew nothing." Kaelen's voice cuts through like a blade. He's moved, positioning himself between me and the stranger, one hand on his blade, the other flat against the stranger's chest. "You've said enough. More than enough. State your name and your purpose, or I'll assume you're one of the assassins and act accordingly."
The stranger looks down at Kaelen's hand on his chest. Looks back up at him. And smiles that slow, amused smile again.
"Dorian," he says. "Dorian Ashvale. And my purpose is the same as yours—keeping her alive."
Kaelen doesn't move his hand. His fingers stay splayed against Dorian’s chest, pressing against the dark fabric of his shirt. The garage air thickens, heavy with the smell of oil and moss and that bonfire-jasmine scent coming off Dorian in waves.
"Keeping her alive," Kaelen repeats, his voice a low rumble. "And why would an incubus care about the survival of a Thornheart heir?"
Incubus.
The word lands in the silence, a stone dropped into still water. I feel the ripple of it through my bones. Dorian Ashvale. Three hundred years old, if the stories are true. A creature of desire and hunger, who feeds on emotion, on touch. On life. I’ve heard the whispers—tales told in hushed tones about beings who could seduce you out of your own skin, who could make you beg for things you’d never wanted.
And he’s standing in front of me, smiling.
Dorian’s amber eyes never leave Kaelen’s face. "Why does a satyr care? You’re not exactly known for your court loyalties. You keep to your woods and your herbs and your deals."
"I knew her mother," Kaelen says, and there’s a weight to the words that makes my throat tighten. "I owe a debt."
"Ah." Dorian’s smile widens, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. "Debts. How very fae of you." He shifts his gaze back to me, past Kaelen’s shoulder. "I don’t deal in debts. I deal in survival. And the survival of the Thornheart line… benefits me."
"How?" Sera’s voice is sharp. She hasn’t moved from her defensive stance, but her eyes are locked on Dorian, calculating. "What’s in it for you?"
Dorian finally looks at her. Really looks. His gaze travels from her silver-blue hair to her winter-sea eyes to the sea-glass at her throat. "The half-siren asks practical questions. I like that." He tilts his head. "The balance of power is a fragile thing. The courts have been fracturing for centuries, held together by tradition and fear and the occasional well-placed corpse. A Thornheart on the throne—a true Thornheart, with the old blood running hot—changes things. It creates stability. And stability…" He pauses, his eyes sliding back to me. "...is good for business."
"Business," I echo. My voice is dry. "What business?"
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he lifts a hand—slow, deliberate—and places it over Kaelen’s, which is still pressed against his chest. Kaelen tenses, but Dorian doesn’t push it away. He just covers it with his own, his fingers long and elegant against Kaelen’s moss-green, work-roughened skin.
"I trade in secrets," Dorian says softly. "In favors. In the quiet movements of power that happen in shadowed rooms after the official meetings are done. A restored Thornheart court would need allies. It would need people who know how the world really works." He smiles, and this time it’s different—smaller, more genuine. "And it would need someone who can teach a hidden princess how to control the star she’s holding inside her ribs before it burns her alive."
The star inside my ribs pulses, as if it heard him.
Kaelen slowly pulls his hand back. He doesn’t sheath his blade, but he takes a half-step to the side, breaking the line between Dorian and me. Assessing. "You felt the pulse. You tracked it here."
"I did."
"The assassins will have felt it too."
"Undoubtedly." Dorian’s gaze flicks to the garage door, as if he can see through the metal to the city beyond. "They’ll be locating her soon. They have methods—old magic, blood-tracing. They found her once tonight already." He looks at Sera, and something like respect flashes in his eyes. "Your friend here got in the way. Next time, they won’t miss."
Sera’s jaw tightens. "They weren’t aiming for her. They were aiming for me."
"Were they?" Dorian asks, and his tone is mild, curious. "Or were they aiming for the beacon standing next to you?"
The question hangs in the air, sharp as the iron scent of the tools around us. Sera goes still. Her eyes narrow, winter-sea churning.
"Explain."
Dorian shifts his weight, and the bare bulb paints a long shadow across the oil-stained floor. "The van was a Guild vehicle. Standard issue. Low-level thugs with a simple directive: eliminate the half-siren causing trouble in their territory." He tilts his head toward Sera. "Your work with the underground hasn't gone unnoticed. You've been poking holes in their operations. Stealing their shipments. Freezing their assets. They wanted you gone."
"Then—" I start.
"Then," he cuts in, his amber eyes locking onto mine, "they saw you. Standing there in the streetlight. And whatever wards your aunt wove into your skin twenty-four years ago, they cracked the moment you brought your friend back from the dead. For a second—just a second—your power shone through. A Thornheart beacon, bright enough to blind anyone with the right senses." He takes a slow breath, and the scent of bonfire smoke deepens. "They didn't just want the half-siren dead. They wanted to report a sighting. To collect the bounty on the lost heir."
My skin goes cold. The protein bar I ate turns to lead in my stomach.
Kaelen speaks, his voice gravel. "The Guild works for the Court of Ash."
"The Court of Ash," Dorian confirms, "who currently holds the Sunstone Throne. Who murdered your parents. Who has been hunting every whisper of Thornheart blood for three centuries." He takes a step closer to me, and Kaelen doesn't stop him this time. "They don't just want you dead, Rowan. They want you erased. Your magic unmade. Your lineage scrubbed from history so their claim stays pure."
"And you?" Sera asks, her voice tight. "Which court do you serve?"
Dorian's smile is thin. "I serve myself. Courts are fickle things. They rise and fall. I prefer… longer investments."
"You're an incubus," I say, the word feeling strange in my mouth. "You feed on…"
"Desire," he finishes, his gaze dropping to my mouth for a second before returning to my eyes. "Emotion. Life force. The heat of a living soul." He says it plainly, no shame, no flourish. "It's what I am. Not all of who I am."
The garage feels smaller suddenly. The walls press in. The hum of the bulb is a high, insistent whine in my ears.
"Why come here?" Kaelen asks. "If you're not with them, why risk leading them to us?"
"I didn't lead them," Dorian says, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. "I cloaked my approach. Dampened my own signature. The only pulse they'll have tracked is hers." He nods toward me. "And by now, they'll have a location. This garage. This block. They'll be converging."
Sera swears, low and vicious. She turns to Kaelen. "We need to move. Now."
"We were leaving in an hour," Kaelen says, but his eyes are on Dorian, weighing. "Can you buy us time?"
Dorian considers. "Maybe. If I leave a false trail. Lead them on a chase through the city while you slip out the back." He looks at me. "But you'll need to learn to cloak yourself. To pull that star back inside your ribs and keep it there. Otherwise, every step you take will be a shout in the dark."
"Teach me," I say.
The words come out before I think them. They hang between us, raw and exposed.
Dorian's eyebrows lift. "Now?"
"You said they're triangulating. That we have maybe a day. I don't have a day." I take a step toward him, my boots scuffing on the concrete. "Teach me how to hide."
He studies me, his head tilted. The silver scar through his eyebrow catches the light. "It's not a simple trick. It's a discipline. A lifetime of control, learned in minutes."
"I brought someone back from the dead tonight," I say, my voice low. "I called air and water and earth and fire without trying. I think I can handle a few minutes of discipline."
For a long moment, he says nothing. Then he nods, once. "Alright. But we do it here. Now. And your friends stay quiet."
He closes the distance between us. Two steps. Now he's close enough that I can see the individual lashes framing his amber eyes, the faint lines at their corners. He smells like a forest fire at midnight—smoke and jasmine and something deeper, muskier.
"Close your eyes," he says.
I do.
The world narrows to the sound of his breathing. To the scent of him. To the low hum of the bulb overhead.
"You feel the magic in your chest," he murmurs. His voice is different now—softer, focused. A teacher's voice. "The warmth. The light. The… star."
I nod. I feel it. A steady, golden pulse behind my ribs, like a second heartbeat.
"Good. Now imagine it's not light. It's water. A pool of it, deep inside you."
I try. I picture the golden glow softening, shifting, becoming liquid. Heavy. Cool.
"Now pull it inward," he says. "Not down. In. Toward your center. Like you're drawing a curtain closed around a lamp."
I concentrate. The warmth resists. It wants to shine. It wants to reach.
"Breathe," Dorian says, and his voice is right in front of me. I feel the warmth of his breath on my face. "In. Hold it. Now, on the exhale, pull."
I exhale. I pull.
The light dims. Not much. A flicker. But it dims.
"Again," he says.
I breathe in. The garage smells of oil and moss and him. I hold it. My lungs burn. On the exhale, I pull the light inward, picturing a shroud wrapping around it, smothering the glow.
This time, the dimming is sharper. The golden pulse in my chest fades to a soft ember, a banked coal.
"Good," Dorian whispers. "Now hold it there. Don't let it flare."
I hold. My muscles tremble with the effort. It's like clenching a fist around a live wire—the energy fights back, sparking against the edges of my control.
"How long can I keep this up?" I ask through gritted teeth.
"As long as you need to," he says. "It gets easier. The first time is always the hardest."
I open my eyes. He's watching me, his expression unreadable.
"They won't feel me?"
"They'll feel a whisper. A rumor. Not a shout." He takes a step back, breaking the proximity. "It'll buy you time to reach the Whispering Wood. After that…" He glances at Kaelen. "You have a plan, I assume."
Kaelen nods. "The old trails. The vault beneath the black rose. Three nights to the dark moon."
Dorian's gaze sharpens. "The Thornheart vault. You're aiming to claim her inheritance."
"It's hers by blood," Kaelen says.
"It's a death trap by design," Dorian counters. "Aeliana wove protections into that place that would shred anyone without the right key. And the right heart."
"We have the locket," I say.
Dorian looks at me. Really looks. His eyes travel from my wild copper curls to my storm-grey eyes, down to the calluses on my hands, the stubborn set of my jaw. "You have her locket," he says slowly. "And you think that's enough."
"It opened for me. It showed me the way."
"It showed you a memory," he corrects. "A pretty vision of a moonlit garden. The vault itself is another matter. The protections aren't just magical. They're… sentient. They test you. Your worth. Your intent. Your blood."
Sera folds her arms. "You sound like you've been there."
"I have." Dorian doesn't elaborate. He turns back to Kaelen. "You'll need a guide who knows the traps. The illusions. The things that live in the shadows there."
"We have a guide," Kaelen says, his voice flat.
"You have a satyr who knows herbs and wards and the quickest path through a forest." Dorian's smile returns, edged. "I know what waits in the dark under the Thornheart estate. I've seen it."
The silence stretches. The bulb hums. Somewhere outside, a car alarm starts, then cuts off.
"What do you want?" I ask.
Dorian meets my eyes. "I want to see you survive. I want to see you claim what's yours. And I want a seat at the table when you do."
"A seat," Sera repeats, skepticism dripping from the word.
"An audience. A voice. A… consideration." He spreads his hands. "I'm not asking for the crown. I'm asking for a place in the new order. One where my interests are… aligned with yours."
Kaelen grunts. "He's a predator. He'll say whatever he needs to get close to the power."
"True," Dorian agrees easily. "But right now, my hunger is for stability. Chaos is bad for business. A Thornheart on the throne brings order. Order allows for… longer-term investments."
I look at Sera. Her jaw is tight, her winter-sea eyes stormy. She gives me a slight shake of her head—a warning.
I look at Kaelen. His moss-green face is set in grim lines, his hand still resting on the pommel of his blade.
I look back at Dorian. At the amber eyes watching me, waiting. At the silver scar. At the easy confidence of a creature who has seen three centuries pass and knows how to survive them.
My magic sits banked in my chest, a quiet coal. Holding it there is an effort. A constant, low-grade strain. I can't do this alone. I can't outrun assassins, unlock a vault, and learn to control a power I didn't know I had, all while keeping the light hidden.
"You'll help us get to the vault," I say.
"Yes."
"You'll teach me to control this. To cloak myself."
"I will."
"And when it's done, you get your seat."
His smile is slow, satisfied. "Yes."
Kaelen takes a heavy step forward. "Rowan—"
"We don't have a choice," I cut him off, my voice quiet. "He's right. They're coming. And I can't…" I gesture helplessly at my own chest. "I can't keep this contained forever. Not on my own."
Sera exhales, a sharp sound. "He's an incubus. He feeds on emotion. On life. You let him get close, and he'll bleed you dry without you even feeling it."
Dorian doesn't deny it. He just watches me, his head tilted, as if waiting to see what I'll do with the truth.